


Dominion of the Sun

by taranoire



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Dark Fantasy, Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 22:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11999145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taranoire/pseuds/taranoire
Summary: Roy Mustang, Blacksmith-Prince of a crumbling alchemical empire, embarks on a secretive mission to the hermit kingdom of Aurum to negotiate an alliance. But the Golden Kingdom has its own secrets, not least of which is their religion--a fanatical cult revolving around the worship of the Magnum Opus made flesh: Edward Elric.





	Dominion of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this in 2014, but I found it today when going through my old writing. If it garners any interest I may finish it. We'll see.

_According to historical record, Gora was founded fifteen hundred years ago in the year 237 of the second era. It began as a consolidation between the barbarian tribes of the Briggs Mountains, an effort to halt warfare that had flourished during the infamous Alchemical Awakening. In the middle of Gora’s vast tundra landscape, amid the fog of volcanic springs, these tribes combined their knowledge of farming and metalworking and laid the foundations of an empire that would one day envelop half the known world._

_In modern times, Gora occupies a swathe of space between natural borders: the mostly-dormant volcanic mountains to the south, the desert to the east, and the sea to the north. While Gora is the shadow of the empire it once laid claim to, it is still the largest sovereign nation by sheer geographic scope, encompassing thousands of square kilometers._

_Still, most of Gora is empty tundra and cold desert. Its population is concentrated among several cities within the eponymous “ring of fire,” a network of mines, hot springs, and small seismic centers. The earth is cool and rich here, producing dark leafy crops and strong cattle, and civilization grew around the plentiful metals for which Gora is famous._

_…For six hundred years, Gora tried to devour the world. For two hundred more, it lay silent within what was left of its borders. Towards the end of the third era, when it began to stir in the ashes of former glory, something sinister awakened in the East, and Gora was not left untouched…_

_-James Scholl_

_An Account of Gora: Empire of Flame_

_Year 411 of the fourth era (1910 AD, Amestrian calendar)_

_*_

Sixth Moon, year 224 of the third era

Roy Mustang is neither unaware of the irony of his name, nor ashamed of it: it can only be assumed that his parents never envisioned their son as a prince among horses. From childhood, he spent time with them, the stallions and the mares; he helped the stable hands raise the colts and broke the horses in once they were old enough to obey a command. Learning to ride became less of a duty and more of a pleasure. He has fond memories of galloping across the tundra, kicking up dust, finding vistas and watching smoke (man-made and natural) sink into the horizon like blood in a bowl of water.

His favorite horse is a coal black, three-year-old steed named “Hayate.” It is an old name, a word that means _quick_ in a tongue that Gora no longer fully remembers. There are fragments of that culture left, bits and pieces—in their metalworking and in their mannerisms—but most has faded into the ethers of history. It is a sad thing but when Roy rides Hayate at speeds that could destroy any other horse, he thinks that the spirit of that ancient tongue becomes them.

Ten ride with him now, all wearing the colors of the empire, blue and gold. Flanking him at either side are his most trusted Ironwards, knights of noble blood entrusted to protect him with metal and flesh. Sir Jean Havoc is a veteran paladin, exemplary with a steel bow and usually armed to the teeth, accustomed to tight battles in the hot shadows of erupting volcanoes. On the left is Sir Hawkeye, quiet and reserved. Not much is known about the woman, and she does not relinquish details easily, but her sharpshooting skill easily surpasses Havoc’s and beyond that she is preternaturally gifted.

“Scout ahead, but do not endanger yourself,” he shouts to her from his mount, the sound of trampling feet nearly drowning out his voice.

She shrinks and becomes weightless, blond hair rippling into feathers across her body, limbs twisting gracefully into wings as sharp as daggers. With a screeching cry the hawk departs the galloping horse, soaring off into the far distance, but the mount does not appear to notice its master has left it. It continues to run at a breakneck pace.

Rain begins to fall, light and cold, making grime run in dark lines down Roy’s face. It makes faint _clink_ sounds on his polished steel armor, creating a cacophonic melody.

Three days ago, he sent messengers to Embersong. The town is small but inhabited by roughly one thousand souls, and the coal mine is their lifeblood—and the Black Fortress’ investment. Scouts have reported dark, acrid smoke rising from Embersong for close to a week, and it was only on the insistence of the Steelwards that he sent anyone to the gods-forsaken place. Mine explosions are uncommon in a land that has mastered fire as a tool and a weapon, but Roy does not suspect it can be anything else.

Ordinarily, he would send a few dozen troops to investigate Embersong on their own. He’s a bit of a lazy bastard when it comes down to grit. But these are special circumstances, and the decision was not his to make.

The town is close now. He can see Embersong’s temple spire, glowing red like a blacksmith’s kiln, and above that, rising steadily, a thick column of black smoke. Roy can smell it, and his stomach immediately tightens with dread. There is no mistaking the acrid, sweet stench of burning human flesh. He has taken enough lives to know it intimately.

He raises his hand as a signal to slow down and has Hayate come to a halt. There is no sign of Hawkeye yet and he will not further approach Embersong until she returns. He addresses his soldiers.

“Our priority is finding survivors,” Roy says to them in a clipped tone. He has Hayate pace before them so that he can look into their eyes. They regard him with a cold and indifferent respect. “If you must sacrifice one to save ten, so be it. As far as our intelligence goes, we’re investigating an accident. Do not put your fellows’ lives at undue risk. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” they respond in unison.

“Embersong is a ward of the empire and will not be abandoned,” he says. “It is our responsibility to discern what happened here for the sake of Gora and Her Esteemed Forgehammer.”

Jean Havoc looks towards the smoke in the distance with a thinly-veiled expression of worry. His mount stirs, sensing his anxiety and mirroring it. “With all due respect, I don’t think there’s going to be much to save, boss.”

“Paladin Havoc,” Roy warns, “destroying troop morale is not on the agenda. My gloves, please.”

“We’re all thinking it. I just wanted to say it.”

“My _gloves_ , paladin.”

The archer reaches into his horse’s saddle pouch and produces a small dragonskin bag embroidered with steel thread. He tosses it unceremoniously at Roy Mustang, who catches it with as much reverence, and Roy opens the metal clasps.

The gloves are made of white synthetic cloth, his own invention that can be found nowhere else in the mappable realm. Alchemical circles have been sewn in scarlet. The salamander’s eye is an unnecessary, but very pretty, ruby.

Roy tugs the gloves onto his hands and all of his fears seem suddenly insignificant.

There is a familiar screeching sound, and claws scratch his shoulder as Hawkeye swoops past his head. She lands on her horse and transforms back into a woman, not a single hair out of place. She breathes heavily, physically exhausted from the flight, and her eyes are dark and somber with the memory of whatever she has seen.

Jean offers her a drink from his leather canteen. She gulps down the water gratefully, and then with water dripping down her chin, focuses on Roy.

“It’s been burned,” she says in a voice rough with smoke.

His worst fears have been confirmed. He nods slowly. “I had thought as much. Still, we must look for survivors.”

She shakes her head. “It was not an accident. This was deliberate, an act of war. I cannot say—cannot describe. I suggest we approach with the utmost caution, Excellency; this could be a trap to assassinate you.”

He soberly digests this information, but does not let it affect his persona. “I’m the eighth Blacksmith in line for the throne. I’m not important enough to assassinate,” he says, brushing off her concerns. He takes Hayate’s reins in his gloved hands and shakes them insistently. “Let’s go.”

The scent of burning dead becomes more intense the closer they get to Embersong. Only the blackened hulls of buildings remain, stones stained dark with soot. Corpses litter the square, some burned so thoroughly that they are little more than skeletons now. Some of the corpses stand, melted in place, as if running away from the flames. The destruction is so widespread, and so intense, that Roy can see why Hawkeye suspects foul play.

He can scarcely stomach it. Killing armed men is one thing, but these were civilians.

“Look for survivors,” he commands his men, though as soon as the words leave his lips the more ridiculous they seem. No one could have survived this. He is only endangering them, at this point, for a mere formality. But he will never hear the end of it if he abandons the mission. “Split up!”

They comb the wreckage that is not still burning, but even then it is dangerous work. Nearly everything is hot to the touch, and the air is difficult to breathe. Occasionally a man will cry out that he thinks he has found someone, and the rest will rush to him, only to find that it is a fallen piece of timber, or worse, another corpse.

This was a foolish endeavor. Roy should never have allowed himself to be talked into this.

“Sir!” Jean Havoc cries out, over by a blackened and half-toppled grain mill. Roy hears the panic in his voice and goes to him as quickly as his feet can carry him, and the fear thickens when he sees how pale the paladin is against the smoldering ruins of Embersong.

“What is it? What have you found?”

“I—I saw a woman,” Jean says shakily, unsteady on his feet. He’s pointing towards the black mouth of the coal shafts. “Over there, in the mine! I saw a woman in the coal mine. She—she had long dark hair, and a face like a corpse—”

“Sit down and rest a moment, paladin,” Roy commands. As if the order isn’t enough he physically pushes the blond man to the ground, wary of his bow and making sure he doesn’t damage it. They need to get out of here. The heat and smoke are causing even his best soldiers to succumb to desperate hallucinations. “You need water. Where is your canteen?”

Jean shakes his head. “I saw her in the dark,” he says, blue eyes wide. “I saw her and she _looked_ straight into me, smiled at me…she said my name, Roy. How did she know my name?”

“Nevermind that,” Roy says, getting to his knees and taking out his own waterskin. He uncorks it and holds the lip to Jean’s mouth, letting him drink his fill. He becomes lost in thought, watching the water run into the paladin’s mouth, watching his throat expand and contract, when he realizes that Jean is no longer looking at him.

He’s staring wide-eyed over his shoulder.

Roy turns his head, and then curses, drawing his sword and scrabbling to his feet. A beautiful woman stands before him. Her raven hair falls past her shoulders and tumbles over her back, and her lips are as red as the blood that beads onto the edge of his sword from her neck. It is not deep enough to cause her harm, but deep enough to make him hesitate. He breathes heavily.

She grins at him. “Tell me, dear Blacksmith,” she addresses Roy, “do you fear death?” He gives her a confused look, but before he can respond to her question, her face begins to rot before his eyes. It peels white and gray and black, mealy pieces of flesh corroding while her laugh echoes around his ears. Her body begins to writhe, a twisted mass of meat and bone, the air vibrating with hundreds of piercing screams.

He does not think. He grabs his paladin.

“Lich!” he cries out in warning as loudly as his lungs will allow. Fire rushes out from her form like drops of oil on pure water. “Lich! Get back to the horses!”

He rounds a corner and pulls Jean along with him, slamming them both up against a wooden barrier that used to form the main wall of a peasant’s cottage. Fire, malicious and dense, rushes towards them but he’s ready. He snaps his fingers (calculations rush through his brain, a dance of math and symmetry and art that he has learned through years of practice) and hot air bursts towards the wall of flame, seeping oxygen from its path.

He hears his men crying out but does not know if that means they are dead or dying. Above the cacophony, there is laughter, genderless and mirthless.

“A lich,” Jean Havoc mutters besides him, shakily tugging an arrow from his holster. “It had to be a _fucking_ lich.”

“I suppose we should be grateful it didn’t bring friends,” Roy says.

“You don’t think one is enough, sir?”

The lich bellows, the sound deep and loud across the tundra. Its enormous shadow falls over them, its wings thrusting up and down, fanning the flames with great blasts of air as it rages. It is scarlet in color, bright with the fire it has called up from hell. The lich is larger than fifteen horses, and no doubt stronger.

It screeches towards the sky and the blistering sun. Fire fans outward from the lich’s body, devouring all within distance of the flames. Roy forces himself to look away as several of his men are consumed, shrieking and blackening in the lich’s element.

Jean Havoc rises from the ground, sweat dripping down his brow, and fires an arrow at the lich. It pierces the creature’s head—it might have been a deadly shot, were it not for the dragon’s thick armored skin. As it is, the lich just shrieks, and fixes its violet-shaded eyes on Paladin Havoc in fury.

Roy pushes him out of the way and snaps his fingers as the dragon breathes a wall of fire towards them both. He can’t do much but protect himself right now, stealing the dragon’s oxygen before the flames can reach them. It’s still hot as hell here no matter how hard he tries to force cold air down into their space. His armor burns against his skin and he fears his flesh will melt into it.

“Jean, find Hawkeye and get the hell out of here!” he yells over the roar of the flame.

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Do you dare disobey your Blacksmith?” Roy threatens. He can barely breathe. “I command you to get out of here alive.”

Jean hesitates. He swallows hard, and the nods. He crawls away on his hands and knees, close to the earth where it’s likely much easier to breathe in all of this heat and smoke and debris. Meanwhile, the lich has moved on. It is circling the remains of the town, growling and breathing dense, bright blue flame onto his soldiers and what’s left of anyone else.

Roy has never felt so completely useless in his entire life. Gora specializes in flame alchemy—so it has always been, from the time when it was nothing but a group of barbarian city-states. Man learned how to harness fire, so the legends say, and then how to transmute, but never abandoned the first art. Roy cannot touch a lich with the power of a thousand suns at its command! And he certainly cannot save his men from it.

He makes a break for it, running from cover to cover as if he is hiding from bolts or arrows and not the scorching power of a dragon. He ducks into the remains of a building, beneath a burning beam. It crashes and spits ash and sparks at his flank. He hears agonized cries, wailing. Keep running, keep running. You are a Blacksmith. You use this as a weapon. You are a weapon!

In the end he cannot tell if it is his own voice or his father’s screeching inside his head.

There is a scream.

“ _No_!”

He looks up to see a flash of black wings against a crimson sky. The lich gives a great bellow of pain and lunges towards the ground, causing the earth to quake as it lands in a scattering of fire and debris, clawing at its own face. Roy darts towards where he first heard the cry, armored feet pounding dry dust. Blood pools in the dirt, a thin trail leading back further, behind…

“Paladin!”

Jean Havoc lies sheltered against the skeletal remains of a tree, clutching his stomach. Blood runs red and thick over his fingers. He stares in disbelief down at the mortal wound, as if he doesn’t quite know what to think of it. As if it’s some minor inconvenience that the gods have chosen to test him with.

Roy sinks to his knees. He ignores the cries and shrieks of the lich, who is writhing in pain in the middle of Embersong’s square. It howls, pulling its claws at last away from its head, revealing bloody gouges where its violet eyes once glowered. Its scales shimmer with blood the texture and color of oil.

“It’s worse than it looks,” Jean rasps. He chuckles, but it’s a faint, dry sound.

“Shut your mouth,” Roy snaps. Shakily he reaches for the wound, but he knows that if he pulls the man’s hands away he will bleed out more quickly. “Goddamn it. God _damn_ it, paladin. I told you to grab Hawkeye and run, and you decided—what? To play the hero?”

Jean shakes his head. “I’m not a hero, excellency. Ain’t got a heroic bone in my body.” He nods off past Roy’s shoulder, closing his eyes. “She’s a goddamn legend.”

Roy turns his head in time to see Hawkeye descend from flight, transforming just before she hits the ground. She stumbles into a crash, coughing and choking. Blood drips down her arms, her face, in her hair but Roy knows it’s not all hers; it’s far too dark and acrid-smelling to be anything but the tormented lich’s.

“She tore that thing’s eyes out with her bare hands,” Jean murmurs softly. “I got killed.”

“You’re not dead yet,” Roy says.

“Not if I can help it, sir.”

Hawkeye pushes herself to them, pain writing a story across her body in deep gashes and burns, but she doesn’t stop until she’s beside them beneath the tree. She wordlessly grabs both of Jean’s wrists tightly within her hands, and he cries out as blood gushes forth from the wound in his abdomen.

“Save him,” Hawkeye says almost tonelessly.

Roy takes a sharp breath, Havoc’s life hanging on mere seconds of indecision—and snaps.

_*_

_…the inhabitants of Gora are tall, with dark hooded eyes, black hair, and moderate complexions. They share genetic characteristics with the Xingians, to the Far East, but any cultural similarities have long since faded to the sands of time…_

_…its people certainly pretend that they have cultivated a unique and advanced culture, and the ubiquitous title of ‘empire’ implies as much… But what is Gora except a land of savages? Its infants are more likely to grasp at swords than teats. I have seen their men eat entire cattle, down to the marrow in the bones. And this is to say nothing of the women, who will walk barefoot in the tundra to gather deadwood for ever-burning communal kilns…_

_-Ignacio Mundus_

_Letter to Halbert Brunus, year 840 of the second era_

_*_

The throne hall of the Black Fortress is a decadent stone room with eight roaring fire pits providing the only illumination and heat. The throne itself, composed of black granite and lightning-scorched sand, rests at the end of the hall on a raised platform. Forgehammer—one who rules with a fist of iron and the technique of a skilled metallurgist—sits there now, overseeing her Steel and Ironwards as they convene at the infamous round table.

The steel diadem of Gora rests on the Forgehammer’s brow. Her imperial robes are made of fine dyed blue leather and silver. No less than fourteen Steelwards are gathered at the table beneath her, each bearing the seal of their respective cities. Behind them, in full armor, stand the Ironwards. Three seats remain unoccupied; the Forgehammer does not expect they shall be filled.  

Roy Mustang stands beside her throne, hands clasped respectfully behind his back as he watches the proceedings. He does not think that things will sour, but should anything seem amiss, he is well-equipped. He has concealed his incendiary gloves in his pocket, and his sword—a strong, thin weapon made of folded steel—remains holstered at his side.

The Forgehammer leans forward and addresses the gathered nobility. “I will not mince words. The situation is dire. Steelward Izumi will inform you of our status.”

Izumi nods her head, stapling her fingers and resting her arms on the table. She has always intimidated Roy with her fierce disposition and mysterious presence. Although officially in charge of a town near the Ishvaran desert, the alchemist has made an impression on the Forgehammer, and is often looked to for advice on arcane matters. She is also a supremely skilled fighter and swordswoman.

“Three of Gora’s mining cities have been desecrated. Ten thousand people who poured their sweat and blood into the empire’s soil now lie dead in it. First was Embersong, taken by fire and ash. Ironward Hawkeye managed to incapacitate the lich responsible, but the creature fled the scene before it could be slaughtered. Soon after, there was Sandshard, washed away in the dark of night. And just yesterday, at high noon, a windstorm of monstrous proportions destroyed Masha. There were no survivors.”

“And you are certain that lich are involved?” an Ironward asks.

“The lich dragon of fire and seduction—we call her Lust--attempted to kill the Blacksmith,” Izumi says, her eyes flashing coolly toward Roy for only a moment. “Lich can manifest as a number of elements and abstract conditions. And if this pattern is anything to go by, we are dealing with more than just Lust. At least three dragons roam Gora. Lesser lich have begun to emerge from the ashes of the fallen cities. Undead crawl within abandoned mines.”

“What’s creating them?” Roy wonders aloud, drawing the attention of the nobility. “Lich do not spawn arbitrarily. They require hosts, and alchemists stupid enough to try binding a soul to a corpse.”

“Given the warlike nature of these crimes, we can only assume that this is an organized effort, perhaps by an enemy state,” the Forgehammer says. She presses her fingers to her lips in contemplation, gazing at the reflection of the fire in the polished wood table. “If it is not war, then the gods are punishing us.”

 “Who would dare to attempt provoking us?” a dark-complexioned Steelward mutters angrily.

The Forgehammer laughs. It is not a kind laugh. “Who wouldn’t? For centuries Gora specialized in diplomatic tragedies. Amestris is an infant among nations and looks to stretch its wings; Xing has been infatuated with us for millennia; Franconia envies us for existing.”

“But none of these nations would employ lich,” Izumi says. “And even fewer would admit to it.”

“Perhaps not,” the Forgehammer concedes. “But whatever is at work has not yet revealed itself. What can we do except speculate?”

“Be careful not to speculate the empire into a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Roy says darkly, knowing that the so-called diplomatic tragedies never quite ended. “If we accuse our neighbors of committing human transmutation we will only be asking for more problems. Instead of placing blame we should be evacuating the countryside.”

“I agree with the Blacksmith,” the angry Steelward says.

The Forgehammer nods grimly. “How long will it take to move so many?”

“A month, at least,” the Steelward says.  “I recommend two weeks if we can, even if that means leaving behind the weaker. The old, the sick, the young.”

 “We will not save the empire by sacrificing our people,” the Forgehammer says.

 “We are running out of options,” Izumi says impatiently.

“What of our allies?” Roy suggests.

“Allies?” an Ironward scoffs. “You jest.”

“I do not,” Roy says, ignoring the lack of faith. They are all under immense pressure. Lesser men would have crumpled to coal dust. “Gora’s history isn’t the most spotless when it comes to foreign relations, no, but surely there is some kind of neutral party that would be willing to come to our aid.”

The Steelwards are silent, and the more he thinks about it, the less hope he has; Xing, an eastern powerhouse and the standard of economic progress, simply _allows_ the western nations to exist and does not waste time on their petty affairs. It would not lend aid to Gora unless its own profitability depended on it. There is also Ishbal, though that country is recuperating from its own civil war, and it is too weak to get involved in this conflict.

“If I may,” a quiet voice says from the other end of the room, “I suggest attempting an alliance with Aurum.”

The table of Steelwards and Ironwards all turn their heads towards the soft voice. Standing tall, Hawkeye looks down the table, directly at Roy. She is speaking to him, only him, and he knows it. “Aurum, Sir Hawkeye?”

“Yes,” the knight says. Her face still bears the marks from their battle with Lust. “You’ve heard  of it, I imagine.”

“Everyone’s heard of it,” the Forgehammer says, “but fewer have seen it.” She tightly squeezes the bridge of her nose while the table discusses the matter in soft mumbles of discontent.

Roy knows very little about Aurum. It is run by a state-sanctioned religious hierarchy, and takes pleasure in hedonistic debauchery, according to his people. He wouldn’t know where to start in a negotiation. But he trusts Hawkeye more than anyone, and he is running out of ideas. “Why Aurum, Sir Hawkeye?”

She raises her chin. Soft orange light brings out the golden color in her eyes. “I was born in Aurum in the shadow of the White-Gold Palace. As a child, I remember hearing stories of Aurum’s alchemical prowess. I have spent so long in this land that these are barely memories to me now, and I consider myself an Aurumnus no longer. But Aurum has weapons, Excellency, and power beyond our need; we should go to them and make our case known.”

The Forgehammer examines her shrewdly. “What sort of weapons?”

“I cannot say,” Hawkeye says. “The priests of Aurum carefully guard those secrets. But I have heard that the Aurumviate have the ability to wipe entire cities off the earth with a single transmutation, and I believe it.”

A Steelward frowns, and clasps her hands on the table. “I have heard the Aurumnus do not have qualms with human transmutation. Sir Hawkeye could be telling the truth. The question is, are we willing to overlook the—immorality of the situation?”

“All transmutation is science,” the Forgehammer says. “And if science says human transmutation is what will save the empire—so be it. We fight sin with sin.”

Izumi’s eyes are narrowed. “This is a large decision to be making on the mere basis of rumors. Aurum is not receptive to outsiders, least of all those interested in using it for their own gain. Your grace, I implore you to consider this further. The Aurumviate is not to be trifled with.”

“You speak as if you have had experience with them,” Roy observes.

She bristles, but endures direct eye contact. “For a time. It’s not important now.” 

“Enough,” the Forgehammer interjects. “I would speak with my eighth Blacksmith alone to discuss the matter further. You are all dismissed.” She waves her hand at the ensemble, and they rise from their seats and file out of the hall’s large metal doors.

Roy is alone with her. When she indicates he should come closer, he obeys without hesitating, a dog on a leash.

His mother takes his chin tightly, examining his features with dark, scrutinizing eyes. “You have recovered well enough from your ordeal,” she says, changing the subject entirely. “Though I still think it a mighty farce that a renowned flame alchemist should succumb to the mark of burn.”

He twists his head away. “My face isn’t even remotely scarred, mother.”

“Thank goodness for that,” she says coldly, letting him go. “I have lost seven of your brothers already. It would be a disaster indeed if my bloodline should die with _you_.”

“There are kinder ways to tell me to get married.”

“And yet you still remain besotted with horses, of all things,” she mutters, though there’s a spark in her eyes. She straightens her posture and sits back in her throne. Roy Mustang does not dislike his mother by any means. She can be cruel, and calculative, but beneath that she is as warm and fleshy as other human beings. It was she who had Hayate bred; it was she who suggested the name. It is even she who crafted his armor.

He lowers his head in a small gesture of submission. “Ironward Havoc regrets he could not attend the summit.”  

“Ah, yes, the paladin—the perpetually rude one. How is he faring?”

“Better,” Roy says, unable to hide the relief that courses through him. “Sir Havoc is still recovering, but he is alive.” He has a massive mess of burn tissue on his abdomen, and he may have trouble walking for the rest of his life, but—that is a wall they will climb when they come to it. It’s a miracle that the man is alive at all, though that’s thanks to Hawkeye’s impulses and Roy’s talent for cauterizing flesh.

“Interesting,” the Forgehammer says, though it’s unclear why. She lets an uncomfortable silence sit between them for a moment or two, and when she speaks again it is with resolute authority. “This is no ordinary war. I have stationed soldiers at every major city, and patrols along the roads. Our legion of fire alchemists have been evenly spread across the country. But there are gaps, Blacksmith, and lich are a threat that cannot be killed by traditional means.”

“I know, mother.”

“You know what I would ask of you, though it might pain me to do it.”

Roy nods. He had been expecting this. “Yes, mother.”

“It will need to be done quietly,” the Forgehammer says, rising from her throne so that they stand at an even level. She is slightly taller than he is, and of thicker build. Her hands are riddled with scars and burns from the forge. “No matter what I do, I will face resistance from the Wards. If I send you—and only you—on this excursion, I lower the risk of being…displaced. Aurum calls out to me like a beacon, child, and I will not throw away the opportunity.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Gather your most loyal followers,” she commands. “Leave tonight. I will prepare gifts for you to present to the Aurumviate, and send a messenger ahead of your arrival so that it is not an entirely unexpected shock. You will do whatever it takes to solidify an allegiance, and secure this weapon. Your instincts are strong; should diplomacy fail, I trust your judgment.”

“Diplomacy will not fail,” he says. “I will not create another headache for you, mother.”

“So long as you do not forget your place.”

*

_There is no religion in Gora. That is what the inhabitants would have you believe. The truth is more complicated. Officially the Black Fortress has a secular policy regarding governance. Their Steelwards and Ironwards have instituted local laws imposing worship of one god or another, but these gods all come from the same disorganized, rudimentary pantheon._

_Worship of these deities usually involves nothing more than passing down tales of their fictitious exploits, or devoting a meal or victory to the appropriate god. Beyond that, it is incomprehensible.  Given Gora’s history, it’s a miracle any of the barbarian tribes’ gods survived the Alchemical Awakening, or what came after._

_-Anonymous_

_Imperial Accounts of Xing, August 27, year 52 of the third era_

_*_

He sleeps that afternoon, and most of the evening. His dreams are dense, dark shapes that he cannot make sense out of. He gets the sense that he is sinking slowly down in blackness, but cannot move or breathe or cry out. Above him he can see the sun, and he reaches desperately for it but eventually it too fades into ethereal space.

He awakens drenched in sweat.

Only two accompany him on this quest, though the choice was easy to make. Sir Hawkeye has been nothing but loyal to him and she knows Aurum better than any who currently exist in Gora, and Sir Havoc, while still recovering from mortal wounds, is a capable shot and Roy would not cover such a great distance without both of them at his side.

They depart at midnight.


End file.
